Accidents Happen
by YetAnotherObsessiveFangirl
Summary: 5 times that John was not supposed to be aroused plus 1 time that he was. Written for a prompt on the Kink Meme, see inside for more details.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Written for the prompt:**

**"Give me some accidental stimulation/involuntarily arousal.  
>Awkward situations between John and Sherlock (maybe caused by too much friction?)<br>A lot of blushing and mumbling occurs :) Whether they do something with it or not is up to you ;D"**

**This isn't quite as asked but.. I hope that you enjoy it anyway.**

**Oh, and as usual this is not beta'd, so all mistakes are my own and feel free to shout.**

* * *

><p>John shifted yesterday's newspaper in his grip, juggling effortlessly with his usual oversized mug of tea as he turned the next page and flaunted an ease that came only with practise. There had been no sign of any new cases for almost two weeks now and it was growing more and more of a struggle for him to do as little as get his flatmate up and out of his bedroom every morning, despite it inevitably leading them to yet another argument. At least Sherlock was sleeping, he supposed. Silver lining and all that.<p>

Taking another swig of his tea, the doctor resumed his flipping through the thin, rustling pages, scanning small print and searching for even a hint of a case that had not yet caught his eye. It would be a relief to get out of the flat without the need for incessant worry about what may get destroyed or what other problems were going to surface when he did.

With a heavy sigh that rattled through his chest, John yawned and set down his tea in order to then take up his mobile and proceed to send yet another text to Lestrade, all but begging for something less harmful that may peak Sherlock's interest.

Minutes of strained hope stretched on before even the suggestion of relief.

Just as the screen flickered pleasingly with the now familiar delivery tone, a slam shattered out from the direction of their shared bathroom. Immediately, John's head whipped up, his eyes widening a little in alarm and with a sharp intake breath.

"Sherlock?"

The shout rang through the few rooms of 221B, unanswered but accompanied with an echoing undertone of empty silence. It was just as John made to stand, both phone and paper pushed to one side, that the bathroom door flung wide open to reveal a very irritated male sporting very wet hair and a very naked body.

"Sherlock?" John asked again but much fainter, his voice giving the slightest waver before he cleared his throat and swallowed with a slight, disbelieving shake of his head.

If the detective had noticed his slip up then John wasn't going to acknowledge it, keeping his gaze down but distinctly _away_ as Sherlock's hands fell upon his narrow hips. He certainly did _not_ watch as they were thrust forwards slightly in the process.

"Yes, that is my name, obviously," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes pointedly but not once allowing the irritation to slip from his features.

John cleared his throat once again, struggling to appear calm and collected, even as a flush of red spread over the doctor's cheeks and crept up to his ears.

Clearly annoyed further by the lasting silence, a growl escaped from between Sherlock's lips to try and pull back his flatmate's full attention.

"Where have you put my razor?" he hissed, eyes blazing.

John's breath hitched, nearly causing him to choke on the inhale.

"I.. uh.." he couldn't seem to find the correct words or even legible sounds, his mind drifting inevitably closer to Sherlock's state and what exactly he may have wanted the razor for.

Even as John's dilemma grew, the detective continued to stare, allowing nothing to escape his notice as he observed the subtle shifting, the drawing of the paper back over his flatmates lap. A single, perfectly shaped brunette brow arched fractionally before curving into a still irritated yet also intrigued frown.

"John-" he began only to be swiftly cut off by the man himself.

"I have no idea where it is, go and put some bloody clothes on!"

The end of the sentence rose into an almost choked cry and John flushed impossibly deeper, shifting his trousers in what he believed to be an unnoticeable manner beneath the newspaper.

Of course, Sherlock was in no way convinced and still stared blatantly, seeming about to comment further when the sharp sound of a phone ringing sliced through the air between the two men.

Instantly, the doctor grabbed for the mobile in an attempt to swerve past the extent of the awkwardness. He took one look at the caller ID before tossing the phone at Sherlock for it to be deftly caught and answered. Swallowing, John both willed his erection to leave and hoped beyond possibility that Lestrade was getting in touch finally with details of a case rather than pressed sympathy. Luckily for the fairer haired man, both of those variables turned up well, although one admittedly more so than the other.

"We're leaving in five minutes," Sherlock announced, ending the call and once again capturing John's whole attention with an admirable ease. He was slightly reluctant to abandon the subject of his blogger's genitals but a case was by a margin more exciting.

The relief was almost palpable as John's shoulders sagged, his trousers thankfully not quite as tight as his grip on the newspaper

"You'd better put some clothes on then," the doctor murmured fondly, lips quirked at the corners into a slight smile. "I think your shaving will wait."

The only response was an absently huffed sigh and the faintest of drafts as Sherlock swirled away into his bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Next comes the inevitable... _Maybe John's the one who gets off on it after all.._**

* * *

><p>The cab ride to the crime scene was thankfully not too uncomfortable, despite the events of the previous hour. It seemed to John that his flatmate had either deleted everything already or simply didn't care, which brought not only a sense of great relief but also the bitter tang of irritation. Though at least the detective had found something non-destructive to occupy his time at last.<p>

It took thirty three minutes of stifling silence before they pulled up at the crime scene - the taxi driver arching a brow at the sight of several police cars and many stripes of tape - to be immediately met with a grim faced Lestrade.

"-she found?" John caught the end of Sherlock's rapid sentence as he jogged after the two taller men (having been slightly delayed with finding the money to pay the cabbie).

"Almost four hours ago, it would seem that they took their time to ring it in..." As Greg replied, John's gaze flicked over to a rather rough looking fellow where he sat on the bonnet of one of the cars, rolling his eyes and sighing as an officer attempted to question him. "Body's over there," the DI started to gesture but Sherlock had already disappeared from his side, swirling past the aforementioned man with only an expression of detest thrown after.

"He's just excited to have a case again," John murmured to the faintly irritated man, a soft smile tugging at his own lips as he gazed after Sherlock, pushing his way past two further officers and a forensic.

Greg let out a quiet, gruff chuckle and rolled his eyes. "No need to apologise on his behalf, mate. He'd never thank you for it."

The words were received with a nod and friendly shrug as silence fell comfortably in the small underground parking area. Both men appeared perfectly comfortable in the setting, both waiting for Sherlock to find something astonishing and both watching the man intently as he was attempting to do so. It was only a few minutes, though, before Lestrade was having to move away to speak with Donovan about the case and no doubt dampen her wish to injure Sherlock in that moment.

The doctor remained and watched from a slight distance as Sherlock bent down before the body, back arching and hips thrusted backwards in John's direction. He reached out to lift the male victim's jacket out of the way of the wound but Johns attention was captured for a different reason as those already tight trousers shifted, straining further. As the detective leaned forwards more, he took a small step to one side, which only pulled the damn material tauter. His friend was left to absently wonder where the man's coat was and why he even bothered with it anyway when everything seemed so much better without.

John's breath hitched in his throat as he stared unashamed at Sherlock's arse, tongue flicking out to moisten his lower lip as they parted. His imagination was begging for release, fingers twitching and almost yearning to move forwards and touch even as his heart pounded.

It was only when a snigger and tut of disgust in the distance drifted through that John rushed back to himself, mouth snapping shut and a blush instantly rising to dust his cheeks. Breath held, he had to reach down and shift his now tight and visibly tented trousers, though he knew it was far too late.

Shit.

They were all staring. Donovan and those which Sherlock had previously pushed past were now stood in a group, glances of revolt thrown between John and his detective. Lestrade remained to one side with raised brows, clear mortification painting his own face in sympathy. One officer split the moment by slipping a five pound note to the forensic.

John couldn't seem to remember how to move, his entire face flushing a deep red as he desperately willed his erection to go away before Sherlock noticed. Again. Twice in one day, as though his body itself wished imminent doom upon him. The weight of many gazes could still be felt upon his body when the doctor shifted, finally moving to tug his jumper down and pray that some hole would suddenly open and swallow him up.

It was a clear sign that he was going to hell when his first thought was that he hoped it was Sherlock's.


	3. Chapter 3

John was slumped over his beer with a twisted expression tugging at his features, flooded with conflicting emotions from all areas.

"Am I ruined?" he muttered to the man sat beside him, taking a large gulp of his drink and managing to completely drain his fourth pint glass of the night so far.

Greg offered a slight shrug, watching John with a friendly concern and still cradling his first drink.

"I wouldn't go that far, mate. Perhaps a little worse for wear, yes, but I'm sure it will pass."

There was a moment of silence before the DI hummed lightly and spoke up once again "Perhaps you just need to find yourself another girlfriend."

The reply was simply a weighty sigh and the pushing of an empty glass across the bar to join its comrades.

"Perhaps," John echoed, his tone dejected and brow furrowed as it had been since the incident at the crime scene earlier that day. He thought himself forever glad to possess such a friend like Lestrade, who had handled the situation rather well after the initial shock of it had died down and had been quick to offer the mortified man the haven of a pub for their usual.

Just as John was about to grab himself another draught of the intoxicating beverage, Greg lifted an arm to touch upon his shoulder and squeeze lightly.

"I think you've enough, mate. Go home, have a shower and get bed: it will be better tomorrow."

His soft smile was genuine and ever friendly, gaze gentle enough for John to let out a small sigh and relax fractionally with a slight nod.

"Alright," he gave in, shifting back on the bar stool and running a hand through his hair. Lestrade finished his own drink quickly and stood to make his way out of the pub at John's side, seeing him safely into a cab before finding his way back to the Yard - there was still far too much paperwork to do, not to mention a no doubt irritate, wandering detective that needed tracking down. Bloody typical.

When John eventually tumbled back into Baker Street, it really was no surprise to find the flat empty of life and shrouded in cold silence. With heavy sighs, the jacket was shrugged off and shoes toed away into the middle of the room. The army doctor then padded through to the bathroom and struggled out of the rest of his clothes, the soft oatmeal jumper landing on the floor in a messy heap along with his trousers, belt and underwear.

As soon as all of his clothes were entirely disbanded, John hurried to step into the shower and turn the water on, unflinching despite the initial cold. He rubbed his hands together whilst waiting for it to heat up, frowning irritably into the gradual increase of steam.

Soon enough, the steady stream of water reached a comfortable warmth, soothing the man's body as he relaxed beneath it. His mind was allowed (in his error) to drift as it pleased.

Almost immediately John's thoughts began to centre around the subject of Sherlock, his wonderful flatmate with the amazing eyes and beautiful body. His slight smile when he did not want to dare admit that he was pleased, his freckled cheeks that only gained their smattering of colour when a rare sunshine washed over London. Freckles that John now knew were not only present upon his face but spread too over the strong, pale expanses of his body. And oh!- that body..

John's eyes slid shut as his imagination ran wild, hands trailing without thought over his body, mapping a hazy path down his chest and across one thigh, grazing over a nipple as it passed.

The cupid's bow of delicious pink curved in his mind and tweaked up into a sly smirk, those perfect teeth moving to bite. Seductive. Dangerous. As John lifted a finger to his own lips, his thoughts tossed him back to the many times that he had woken to the sound of the god-awful violin, before dragging him back to the wicked fingers that danced so tenderly to formulate such sound. The long slender digits, that hinted at what else Sherlock was in possession of (that something being highly rated by John from his earlier glimpse). His mind led directly to what could be done with those fingers, the use that they could be put to along with their singular counterpart.

A soft groan slipped from John's lips, heavy droplets of water running down his face and chest before falling to tease upon his now hardened member. His right hand followed eagerly and he took himself in hand to finally give in completely to the fantasies.

-o-O-o-

It was only later, when watching the pale milk of his release mingle with the warm water as it swirled down the plug, that what he'd just done really hit the man. John took a small step back in the slippery tub, feeling in no way satisfied and guilty as hell.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: **Terribly sorry for posting this a little later than I would have liked, only I was a tad too wrapped up in a bundle of coursework. Apologies.****  
><strong>

**As always, reviews are greatly received.**

**x**


	4. Chapter 4

The day after 'The Crime Scene' set off at a much smoother pace for John Watson. After leisurely stirring into consciousness and tumbling out of bed, he dressed in the familiar warmth of a comfy jumper and pair of trousers before padding into the kitchen to make himself the usual steaming mug of tea (dash of milk with no sugar, lest ye forget). Following slight deliberation, the doctor also rustled up a few thick slabs of toast, each with a heavy smothering of jam. These delicacies accompanied him to the table along with the paper - brought up as usual by good old Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the crime scene and for which he was admittedly rather thankful.

As soon as the man had finished delving into his breakfast, he resituated himself upon the sofa with the rest of his paper.

John was around half way through the news when the sudden banging of their front door and the appearance of a rather cold Sherlock startled him into awareness.

"Where have you been all night?" John asked him quietly, even as his thoughts whirled with the similarity, the almost flashback to the day before.

"Busy," was the only reply he recieved as Sherlock took two large steps towards the sofa, cast his gaze around himself for a moment and flopped down in the centre. With a small sigh, John turned back to the paper, the faintest dusting of rose upon his cheeks. This time, the doctor was only a few lines from the end when he was next disturbed by a curly mop of hair landing his lap and crinkling the grey toned sheets.

"Uhm.. Sherlock?" John blinked, clearing his throat as he tugged the paper out to set to one side. Utter confusion danced over his features.

Sherlock was the one to sigh this time, lifting one slender finger to his friend's lips, whilst biting a little at his own deeply coloured pair.

John could barely breathe, his heart pounding but all blood rushing downwards at the sight of even the smallest snippet of the night's fantasies being played out before him. Well, /on/ him.

The detective shifted a little, adjusting the angle of his head and causing John to gasp softly. He struggled to disguise it with words.

"Th-thinking, are you?" Was the half stammered attempt, his response coming in the form of yet another shift and a scoff of incredulous disbelief.

"Really, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, flicking his tongue against his perfectly white teeth. "Even /I/ find it hard to think properly, with something equally hard pressing against my temple." John almost choked on his next breath, eyes widening considerably as he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"I'm not stupid," Sherlock commented further at the sight of the other's expression, giving way to another heavy sigh before sitting up and hauling himself off the sofa. It was a few moments before his bedroom door slammed shut, leaving a gasping doctor in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: We're nearly at the end guys! Thanks for sticking with me this far and even more thanks to those who have favourited and reviews. Love to you all :3**

**x**

* * *

><p>After Sherlock had stormed out, John found himself alone for a good few hours to once again wallow in self pity and frustration. It was during this time that he managed to consume another three pieces of jam topped toast, five cups of tea and nearly an entire packet of Jammie Dodgers. He would never admit to comfort eating but felt that he truly did deserve a treat after the hell of the past few days. The doctor was in fact about to make a start on the final biscuit, humming in appreciation before a pale and slender hand suddenly reached out in front of him and plucked it from the nearly empty packet. John started a little not having heard his entrance, eyes widening as he looked up at Sherlock. Then, his arms folded.<p>

"I thought you didn't eat on cases," he grumbled, brows knitting together in a deepening frown even as his gaze flicked down to the detective's lips. Just in time to watch as a pointed tongue ran over the biscuit, dipping to scoop the smallest amount of jam from the centre. His eyes were locked to the wiggling muscle, his breath caught in his throat until Sherlock smacked his lips together and dropped the biscuit back into the packet.

"I don't," was the eventual curt response as John's jacket flew in his direction. "But I can't have you gorging yourself now, we're leaving."

John opted out of inquiring as to where they were going, knowing by now that the answer he received would no doubt be ambiguous and in no way helpful. Instead, the shorter man moved to tug on the jacket that had been given to him and stood, following Sherlock out of the building. His gun was tucked into his pocket on the way, knowing by now that it was often a good idea. Just in case.

It was not long before the cab pulled up at their supposed destination and Sherlock hurried him out of the vehicle with a clear hint of impatience. Together, they headed quickly down the nearest street, John following close behind as they ducked around a corner and melted into the shadows of small building. It seemed abandoned, the slight patch of grass along one side overgrown and yellowing, a battered sign shuddering in the breeze with a faded whisper of what this place used to be.

"Why a school?" John breathed, barely audible but just enough for the other man to hear him. Though it was almost as if Sherlock had not heard at all, offering nothing in the way of a response. The doctor let out then softest of sighs and resigned with a small nod to follow Sherlock in silence as he led them through the back of the school, clambering carefully through a broken and badly boarded window. His fingers wavered just over his pocket, poise held at all times with caution.

It was slow moving as the pair crept together through the seemingly empty shell of a building, all senses on high alert in the pitch dark. Time seemed to slow around them, the deafening silence unbroken.

John's only warning was a muffled, indistinguishable breath of a whisper before strong and familiar hands found their way in the blackness to press firmly against his chest. Needless to say, he understood the hint rather quickly and took no time in stepping back and allowing Sherlock to push him none too gently across the room and through a door visible only as a deep shadow amongst others. As it turned out, it did not lead to another room as John expected, but instead a frankly tiny stock cupboard, empty bar a few stray papers. How they were supposed to fit, the man had no idea and yet the taller of the pair seemed unfazed as he too pressed inside and tugged the door shut behind himself, allowing only the smallest slither of 'light' to peek through.

"Sherlock," John hissed, a little louder than intended and yet suitably muffled by the shirt clad chest that he was squashed against. The word only afforded him the slightest of shifts,which in itself did little more than serve to force their bodies impossibly closer together.

It was yet again that ex-army doctor seemed to find himself losing the ability to breathe properly. Despite the questionable circumstances, he could barely help but let his mind wander to other events that could lead to a similar arrangement: fully surrounded by nothing but Sherlock, his low and musky scent filling the air as his chest fell into a steady rhythm with each inhale and exhale of the other man. John had no idea as to how long they were in there, he only knew that as the time inevitably passed it was growing increasingly difficult to cling to any shred of normality and composure. He could merely hope that Sherlock decided that the increasing pressure against his thigh was John's gun, which obviously it was. Only perhaps not the one that one may think.

"John," Sherlock breathed eventually, barely audibly and directly into John's ear, causing a shiver to run down his spine even after this long stretch of silence. "I think it really is time to come out of the closet.."

It was with those words that the great detective smirked and burst from the cupboard, leaving his blogger momentarily stunned and blinking in his wake.

By the time John had recovered himself enough to spring out into the marginally brighter space, Sherlock had already apprehended the target that had dragged them out here in the first place, pinning him to the floor. He reached back at the sound of the other man behind him, pulling John's gun out of it's pocket and bringing it down with a slam into the back of the target's head. Out cold. Then, he stood easily to lean from another of the broken windows and fire three times into the air.

John didn't speak, subtly shifting his trousers.


End file.
